NATHAN TYREE

WHAT THE CROWS KNOW

The birds, their black wings beating against the dead current of winter air, mark the spot in their circling. Moving beneath them we see the redbloodblack smear stretched out along the pocked pavement and the artifacts, the remnants of what must have happened. A fireman without a helmet, works a hose to force the road clean so that no one will see, so that no one will learn what the crows know: that we are alone.